


Break You Like An Oath

by DenaCeleste



Series: Oaths [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Bad Priest Peter, Biting, Blasphemy, Catholic Character, Catholic Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Priest Peter, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7100194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/pseuds/DenaCeleste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A shiver went down Peter’s spine. “God loves you, my child. He created you in his own image. He doesn’t make broken things.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>There was a choked noise, half-laugh and half-sob. “He made me broken. I...I have lustful thoughts. But not--not normal ones. When I give into them, I need pain. Father, please, please, help me. Ask God to take them from me.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Peter took a deep, measured breath, but sweat broke out across the back of his neck anyway. The young man couldn’t mean...what Peter thought he meant. “Confess, child. Tell me of these thoughts and needs.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break You Like An Oath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twisted_Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/gifts).



> First off, I have to thank [Twisted_Mind](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind) for the INCREDIBLE BETA JOB! She ironed out all of the wrinkles and gave this story a tremendous polish. *bows to Twist's skills* 
> 
> This is dedicated to her, because without her cheerleading I ~~probably~~ _definitely_ wouldn't have gotten this done as fast as I did. The words just wouldn't stop!
> 
> Just as an additional warning, this fic deals with a pretty darn unethical priest/parishioner relationship. Of course, Peter Hale is a Catholic priest here, so what do you expect? (To clarify, I am not meaning to denigrate priests here, merely to point out that Peter is a manipulative character who happens to be in the position of authority here.) There're also lots of blasphemous themes presented and explored, so if that's not your thing, no harm, no foul.
> 
> Title comes from my brain misquoting part of _Uma Thurman_ by Fall Out Boy, which kind of kicked off the whole story idea. But hey, that also means a sequel! ;) Eventually.

_ “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two months since my last confession.” _

Peter had listened to so many voices, he could see their faces in his mind’s eye. They told him their deepest secrets, their most shameful thoughts, and he would intercede with God, assign them penance, and tell them to sin no more. 

But of course they did. They were all sinners. So was he. And so was the boy, well, young man, really, who came to his confessional that night. The partition screened his face, but the wobble in his voice was unmistakable. 

“I have...I have wrong thoughts, Father. Wrong...desires, I guess? I need to be fixed. Please, Father, ask God to fix me,” the soft voice pleaded. 

A shiver went down Peter’s spine. “God loves you, my child. He created you in his own image. He doesn’t make broken things.” 

There was a choked noise, half-laugh and half-sob. “He made me broken. I...I have lustful thoughts. But not--not normal ones. When I give into them, I need pain. Father, please,  _ please, _ help me. Ask God to take them from me.” 

Peter took a deep, measured breath, but sweat broke out across the back of his neck anyway. The young man couldn’t mean...what Peter thought he meant. “Confess, child. Tell me of these thoughts and needs.” 

“I-really? Okay, well, I need to cause myself p-pain when I, you know.” He lowered his voice even more, barely a whisper. “Touch myself. And, I mean, I know I need to do penance for that, too, Father, but this is. This is worse than wrong. I have to...hurt. To make it work.” 

This was too good. No, no, not good, bad. He’d joined the priesthood to get away from thoughts like these. Thoughts of what he could do to his lovers, the ways he could hurt them, how he could make them cry. Chastity seemed the only way to be a good person, a Godly person. A person worthy of what family he had left. 

And now this. This member of his flock, whispering that which would tempt him most. And he knew who it was. That voice, that silhouette and profile. He’d memorized it, though he hadn’t meant to. He could picture those bright eyes welling with tears. He could imagine licking those tears away, even as he caused more to wick down Stiles’ long lashes. 

Stiles always sat in the front pew. He always looked eager for the sermon, and to receive the Eucharist. When he opened his mouth to receive the body of Christ, Peter had to strangle the desire to do oh, so many things. To plunder that mouth with his fingers. To see if that mouth opened as obediently under his own. 

Blasphemy. It sent a bolt of nausea through him even as shame left him hard, aching, needy. No amount of prayer or meditation had worked for him. He touched his collar, rubbed the pads of his fingertips against it as he considered the oaths he’d taken. The promises he’d made to a God who still left these urges, these needs in his heart. 

Maybe this was why. He knew what it was like to be at that breaking point. “My child, God does not give us burdens we cannot bear. He doesn’t give us more than we can carry. Come see me after evening services, and I will help you. That’s what I’m here for.” 

“O-okay, Father. And, my penance?” Stiles pressed a hand to the partition, flicking at the wicker with a fingernail. 

Peter fought not to bring his own hand up to trace the pale shadows on Stiles’ skin. “Five Hail Marys. Five Our Fathers. You have confessed your sins and shown contrition. Go forth and sin no more.” 

“Thank you, Father. See you soon.” Stiles sounded relieved. 

Peter enjoyed that part, the release of their burdens. The priesthood was a life of service--but it wasn’t wholly selfless for him. He derived satisfaction from his flock, but his motivations were never quite the same as those of his brothers, who always mentioned “a higher calling”. 

No, his was more a calculated bid to keep his head above water as he tried not to delve into the depths of his own perversion. Now it seemed the Lord had a purpose for his depravity. 

A higher calling indeed. 

*** 

Peter thrust his papers aside and laid his head on the desk with a heavy sigh. He was as prepared to deliver the evening service as he would ever get. Thoughts of Stiles plagued him beyond distraction. 

He was supposed to be hardened to temptation. He could readily distract himself by quoting Bible verses--doing it in Latin was by far the most effective method. Usually, anyway. But now, with the delicious promise of a willing masochist, one who was practically thrown into his path, all that went out the window. It seemed the Lord had spoken to him. 

It was funny how this situation made him think of his mother, but he found some comfort in her remembered words. He could almost hear her resonant voice the day she told him  _ Listen for that still, small voice inside. That is how the Lord will speak to you, when you are lost or confused or uncertain of your path. Listen for it. If it’s right, God’s presence will surround you. It’s a peace that surpasses understanding. You’ll know when you feel it. You’ll always know. _

She had never been wrong. He knew the priesthood was the right choice, back in college. He’d prayed and prayed for his proclivities to wither away, for the thoughts of inflicting pain on his lovers not to make him grow hard. He hadn’t expected his wayward desires to invade his dreams with images of blood and bruises, bites and scratches, or for the concocted sound of exquisite suffering to bring him to completion in his sleep. 

He’d asked, day after day. He’d gotten on his knees and begged the Lord to answer him, to give him a sign. To fix him. And that voice inside, the peace it brought with it, had indeed answered him then. 

As it did now. Peter decided to follow the path laid before him, and trust God to lead him the way he should go. 

***

Peter looked up from his desk at the soft knock on the door. “Enter.” He closed his Bible and slid it to its proper spot at the corner of his desk. He was nothing if not organized. 

“Father? You wanted to see me after…” Stiles trailed off, one hand gripping the door, the other twitching by his side. 

“Yes, my child. Come in, don’t be shy.” Peter smiled and came around the desk to gesture at one of the chairs. And when Stiles flushed, that slithery pleasure returned in Peter’s belly, low and insidious. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much, I just. I want to be good. I want to be a good person, and if I can’t get past this.” He stopped, eyes desperate, lips red from biting them. 

“Stiles, sit. I know you want to be good, and you are. You’re a good boy.” The visible shudder that went through Stiles gave Peter hope. Hope that this would work. Need clawed at his insides, but he ignored it. 

“I’m not, I’m broken, and this is--”

“You are not broken, and you are not alone.” Peter took the chair closest to Stiles and leaned forward. He set his elbows on his knees, steepled his fingers, and stared. 

He waited. 

Eventually, Stiles sat up like he’d been stabbed with a hot poker. “You mean...you too? You, what, like being hurt?” 

Peter let a little of his inner sadist shine through. The part of him that wanted to bite into Stiles’ bottom lip until he whimpered, then harder until he bled. “No, my child. I don’t like being hurt.” 

Peter’s brow furrowed as Stiles relaxed again. He still didn’t realize, poor dove. “But you just said--” 

“I don’t enjoy being hurt. I prefer being on the other side of that exchange. You are not alone, and you are not broken. In fact, meeting with you gives me hope. Because if there’s someone like you in the world, then perhaps it is God’s plan that we should complement each other.” Peter tilted his head and let one hand drop to brush against Stiles’ knee. 

Stiles glanced at the touch, then back up at Peter, and back down. “Should we--? This is weird--I mean, you’re a priest. Should you even be talking about this?” 

Peter chuckled. “Stiles, priests are called to guide their flocks throughout all of life’s trials and tribulations, in addition to their joys and triumphs. We are still but men.” He traced circles around Stiles’ kneecap, but kept it light. It wouldn’t do to spook him and send him fleeing into the night. 

“Oh.” Stiles blinked, blushed, and looked away. “You said you would help me. How, exactly, did you plan to do that, Father?” 

Peter purred. “I’m glad you asked. I planned to prove to you that you are whole. That this is all part of God’s plan for you. Maybe even His plan for me.” 

“But you--you’re a priest,” Stiles repeated, his gaze locked on Peter, like a baby bird watching a snake. 

How appropriate. “Yes. I’m a priest. And it’s time for you to be made clean.” He reached forward and gripped the back of Stiles’ neck. “Yes or no, my child? Would you have me cleanse you?” 

Stiles swallowed hard, eyes wide and a little glazed. Peter squeezed and shook him a little. “Yes or no? Do you trust me?”

“Yes!” Stiles gasped and arched his neck, the pale line of it an irresistible siren’s call. “Please, Father!”

He leaned in, set his teeth against the tender flesh just beneath Stiles’ Adam’s apple, and bit down  _ hard _ . The keening whistle next to Peter’s ear was gorgeous enough to come from an angelic choir--and it may just have been, because an answering thrum of desire swept through him. 

Peter had to stop. Not because of guilt--though there was still some of that--but because Stiles needed to remove his shirt. 

“Take off your shirt,” he muttered into the boy’s neck. He licked the bite mark before stepping back. 

Stiles stared, glassy-eyed as he let out little hitching breaths. “Wha-why?” 

“Because I asked you to, my child.” Peter let a bit of his power, the authority that came with his position, infuse his voice, and couldn’t contain his smile as Stiles stood and obeyed with trembling hands. “Good boy. That’s very good.” 

Alabaster skin, liberally dotted with moles but otherwise free of imperfections made his mouth watered. Peter ached to create beautiful damage across that perfect canvas. He’d kept himself from this young man as long as he could, but now that he knew...he’d been blind, but now he could see. Ignorance had bound him, but truth had freed him from bondage. For good or ill, God’s plan was in motion, and far be it from him to thwart the Creator who’d made them.

He scraped carefully-trimmed nails down the middle of Stiles’ back, from nape to waist, and the boy arched with a gasp. Four perfect red lines blossomed to the surface, and he just had to taste them. The smooth skin beneath his tongue intoxicated him. He cupped his hands just beneath Stiles’ ribs at his waist, held him in place, and added pressure until his little dove’s breaths came faster and faster. 

“Shhh,” he soothed, “just enjoy it. Do you accept this, my child?” He brushed his lips in the valley between Stiles’ shoulder blades. 

“Yes, Father.” He sounded dazed, and he followed Peter’s directive, calming his breathing. He rocked on his feet a little, so Peter guided him back to the chair and pushed him into it. 

Stiles grimaced and adjusted himself. His arousal was obvious through his pants and Peter licked his lips. “Open your pants and take yourself in hand.” 

The boy gaped, and instead of restraining himself, Peter shoved two fingers into Stiles’ mouth and pressed down on his tongue. It swirled around his fingertips, as if Stiles couldn’t help himself--he just had to tongue at whatever was in there. 

Which was promising. But that would come later. Peter was consumed by desire--he was so hard he could feel his heartbeat drumming against his zipper--but there were other things that were more important to his pleasure than a mere blowjob could ever be. 

He knelt before Stiles, and said it again. He didn’t like to repeat himself, but if this continued, Stiles would learn. “Open your pants, Stiles. I want you to wrap a hand around yourself and grip firmly, but don’t stroke. Do you understand?” 

Stiles scrambled, as if his brain had been offline and had come back all of a sudden. “Yes, yes, Father. Should I--” he faltered. “Should I call you that? Or...?” 

Peter glanced away under the guise of watching Stiles pull at his fly to reveal more delicious flesh, and hummed. “I think we should continue as we began, my child. Should the time come to change it, you will be the first to know. Now, be a love and tug your underwear beneath your--yes, that’s it. There’s a good boy. I want to see you, Stiles. To know you.” 

Stiles kept his eyes on Peter, nodding slowly. “Yes, Father. Thank you. I want to know you, too. To know that--this is how we’re supposed to be. Right?” 

“Of course, my dove. We are exactly as we’re supposed to be. We fit.” And with that, he took one pert brown nipple into his mouth and  _ bit _ , covering Stiles’ mouth to muffle his noises. 

Stiles bucked, but he was trapped--by his pants, the chair, by Peter holding him in place. He made little pleading noises, and pressed against Peter’s body, likely dirtying Peter’s frock. 

The thought wound through him and made him pulse in his pants, leaking until his underwear was sticky and uncomfortable. He kissed the vivid marks left by his teeth. “So perfect, Stiles. It’s like you were made for me.” 

Stiles panted under his hand, but nodded. Peter noted that his hand hadn’t moved to stroke, but that it  _ was _ squeezing rather hard around the shaft--that, yes, had left smears all over his frock. 

Peter rose until he was eye to eye with Stiles, and then moved even closer, his lips pressed to the hand he still held over Stiles’ mouth.  “I’m going to bite the other one. And I want you to give in to the bliss of it, the intensity, the beauty of pleasure through pain. Understand that, in those moments is when you truly know your Creator.” 

Stiles gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and nodded. So Peter did as he said and bit down, his teeth surrounding Stiles’ areola, sucking it into his mouth even as he worked his teeth back and forth, letting his tongue flicker over the tip of Stiles’ nipple. 

He clamped his hand down on Stiles’ jaw as the boy bucked and released all over him. Though muffled, his cries of, “Father!” were enough to send Peter over the edge, untouched in his pants. The grip of his teeth tightened as he rode out the pleasure until the taste of iron burst across his taste buds. 

They stayed still for what felt like an eternity. It was late, and Peter knew they had to go, as delicious as this experience had been. He just didn’t want to move yet. He let the hand that had covered Stiles’ mouth rest instead over his heart. 

“Thank you, Father,” Stiles whispered, and pressed a delicate kiss to Peter’s temple. “Maybe...maybe you’re right. And we’re not broken. If God made us this way...He’s never wrong, right?” 

Peter let the gratitude flow over him like benediction. “That’s right, little dove. How’re you feeling?” 

“Better. A lot better. Are we--is this--can we?” Stiles blushed when Peter sat up to look at him with a raised brow. “Um, first, can I get dressed?” 

“I’m sure you can.” Peter smirked. “But I want to look at my marks on you first. You  _ may  _ do up your pants though.” 

“Thank you so much, Father,” Stiles snarked, sarcasm filling the same voice that had called out so beautifully before. 

“What were you asking for? I need you to be very clear, Stiles,” Peter cautioned. He’d gone so far outside the boundaries of his profession, but it felt right. He finally felt at peace. And sticky, very sticky. 

“Can we do this again? Can I--can we be, I don’t know, together? It’s, that’s weird, and you’re a priest, and maybe you don’t--” Stiles’ babble was cut off by Peter’s mouth. 

He slotted their lips together and the boy shut up immediately. When he sucked Stiles’ bottom lip, he got another lovely whimper. And when he bit down on it--not hard, not this time, but with the threat of pain--Stiles melted under him. 

“Yes. And we will,” Peter promised, voice a little breathy, body still vibrating with pleasure. “I’ll figure it out. For now,” he pressed a finger to Stiles’ mouth, “this will have to be our secret. Understand, little dove? What we’ve done here  is as sacred as confession.” 

Stiles nodded, expression solemn even as he glowed with joy. Peter had done that. Had brought that holy light into this boy. “Yes, Father, I understand.” 

“Good boy.” Peter appreciated the goosebumps that rose over Stiles’s skin at the praise. “Now you may get dressed.” He rose and peered down at his frock, covered in rapidly drying seed. At least his pants hid his own ecstatic mess. “Good thing I brought something to go over this.” 

“Yeah, probably. Thank you, again, Father. I think I understand, well, a lot of things now.” Stiles slipped on his shirt, and before he slid out the door, darted forward to scribble on the notepad on Peter’s desk. “My number. In case, you know. But I’ll be back.” He flushed and disappeared with a quiet click of the door. 

“Of course you will, my child. Of course you will.” Peter caught his reflection in one of the glass encased bookcases, and his smile would’ve made a devil proud. He tore off the top sheet from his notepad, folded it, and tucked the number into his pocket before putting on his long jacket and making his way out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come flail with me on [Tumblr](http://denaceleste.tumblr.com) and/or [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/denaceleste)!


End file.
